


Harm and Foul

by concavepatterns



Series: Love and Great Buildings [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Cap Steve, First Fight, M/M, Modern Bucky Barnes, Moving In Together, Rough Sex, that turns into emotional make up sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 12:05:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10360065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concavepatterns/pseuds/concavepatterns
Summary: Bucky is standing in front of Steve’s living room bookcase, cardboard box at his feet, when he feels a pair of arms snake around his waist from behind.Steve’s chin settles on top of his shoulder a second later, warm breath ghosting over his neck as his boyfriend whispers, “Hi.”Bucky automatically grins, leaning back into him. “Hi.”--The one where Bucky moves in, and everything’s great until it isn’t.





	

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven’t read the earlier parts of this series, all you really need to know is that Steve is still Cap, and Bucky is a med student (but if 13,000 words of secret mutual pining is your thing, you can start back at part one [ here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9082387)). All caught up? Good, let's go! :D

Bucky is standing in front of Steve’s living room bookcase, cardboard box at his feet, when he feels a pair of arms snake around his waist from behind.

Steve’s chin settles on top of his shoulder a second later, warm breath ghosting over his neck as his boyfriend whispers, “Hi.”

Bucky automatically grins, leaning back into him. “Hi.”

“Last box?” The question’s somewhat muffled with how Steve’s turned his head to nose along the skin behind Bucky’s ear, but Bucky certainly isn’t about to complain.

“Last box,” he confirms, directing a gentle little kick at the cardboard with one blue striped-sock foot.

A dozen or so books left to be slid into place on Steve’s – on _their_ – shelves, and Bucky will be officially moved-in. It’s kind of surreal, exciting and scary, but more than that, it just feels really fucking _good_. Knowing that he doesn’t have to say goodbye at the end of the day, doesn’t have to make the lonely commute back to his shitty, sparse single-bedroom across the city, doesn’t have to crawl into a bed that feels too big and cold and empty without the steady, comforting weight of a big blond furnace pressed up against his back.

It’s a relief he didn’t even know he’d needed before now.

“Sam and Nat’ll be here around one,” Steve murmurs, still busy nuzzling the side of Bucky’s neck. “Nat says she’s bringing booze.”

Bucky makes a noise, tilting his head to the side to give Steve better access.  He’s half sincere, half sarcastic when he replies, “Great.”

Nat bringing booze means this afternoon is about to end in only one possible outcome: Bucky getting day-drunk on vodka crans. Where she gets her alcohol, Bucky has no idea (and is a little afraid to ask), but it’s consistently some of the best damn stuff he’s ever put in his mouth (all things Steve-related aside), leaps and bounds above the twelve dollar bottles of wine his student budget used to only allow for, so he’ll gladly reap the benefits.

“And Sam?” he asks, hoping he’s going to bring more of those loaded potato things Bucky usually cajoles him into making whenever they have Sam over for dinner.

Steve huffs a laugh against his neck. “Says he’s bringing - and I quote - ‘his sparkling personality’.”

Bucky snorts, offering a dry, “Yeah, okay.”

It’d been intimidating at first, meeting Steve’s closest friends. After all, it’s not every day one finds himself casually hanging out with a former Russian assassin and ex-air forcer turned winged Avenger, but it hadn’t taken long for Bucky and Sam to fall into an easy sort of camaraderie - mainly over a shared love of busting Steve’s balls. Any time they team  up against him Steve grumbles and scowls, but Bucky can always see the way he has to bite the inside of his cheek, fighting a smile, obviously delighted that two of his favourite people manage to get along so well.

Natasha’s a bit of a different story; she still makes Bucky wary. Hovering beneath the surface of those tiny crooked smiles and wry, teasing jabs, he can tell that she’s a predator. He can see it lurking in her eyes, the set of her mouth, the way she holds herself with a light but steel-edged sort of grace. A viper in sheep’s clothing. Bucky sincerely hopes he never has to find out whether her bite is worse than her bark.

“You’re good for him,” she had told him during one particular movie night, after Steve had levered himself up off the couch and gone off into the kitchen to procure more snacks, “he hasn’t smiled like that in a long time. Don’t be the reason it stops.”

The compliment, veiled in a none too subtle warning, had left Bucky flustered for a minute but he finally managed to nod, pushing down the tightness in his throat to promise, with every fiber of himself, “Never.”

This little celebratory house-warming party had actually been her idea, Bucky’d been surprised to learn, and he appreciates that she’s kept it small, contained to just herself and Sam. Bucky isn’t quite ready to be thrust into a full Tony Stark-style bash just yet. He’s still too busy trying to wrap his head around the fact that _Steve fucking Rogers_ is now his permanent roommate.

And speaking of said roommate...

The feeling of hands pushing up under the front of Bucky’s shirt quickly shakes him out of his thoughts, making him groan and lean more of his weight back against Steve.  

Steve’s mouth follows next, hot and wet against the side of Bucky’s throat as he murmurs between open-mouthed kisses, “Better finish unpacking, because I’m about three seconds away from getting on my knees right now.”

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes, brain eagerly visualizing exactly what that’d look like: Steve staring up at him with those bright blue eyes, working Bucky’s pants slowly down his thighs, the obscene stretch of his lips as he leans in and swallows Bucky’s  cock down to the base.

There isn’t time, he knows, and even if they did attempt it, the aftermath of Bucky’s pink cheeks and glassy eyes would be a dead give-away as soon as Sam and Nat walked through the door.

Obviously they’re still in a honeymoon phase, but he doesn’t need to go around broadcasting in neon lights exactly how well-fucked and happy he is.

Besides, Bucky figures, it’s probably already obvious enough with the way he and Steve can’t seem to keep matching wide, dopey grins off their faces whenever they’re within a three foot radius of each other.

“Alright.” Bucky clears his throat, reluctantly straightening back up before his dick can take any more interest in the matter. Because if there’s anything worse than greeting Sam and Nat with that ‘just had sex’ glow, it’s inviting them in while simultaneously trying to hide a raging hard-on. “I’ll finish the books, you start the food?”

“Works for me.” Steve gives him a last – thankfully tame – kiss below the ear before his hands slip away and the wall of heat at Bucky’s back disappears as Steve heads off for the kitchen.

Bucky allows himself a moment to mourn the loss (honestly he could live a very happy life using Steve as his personal space heater twenty-four/seven) before forcing his attention back to the still-full box of books at his feet and trying not to grimace at the daunting endeavour ahead of him.

It’s not that it’s a hard thing to do, putting books on a shelf. It’s just that Bucky is anal - probably excessively so - and has no problem admitting it. He likes order. Structure. Uniformity. All that good shit. And Steve...well, Steve doesn’t care. His shelf isn’t arranged by subject, author, book height, or even jacket colour. Instead everything’s crammed in there willy-nilly, and just looking at it is starting to make Bucky’s eye twitch.

Sighing, he looks down at the box, up at the shelf, then back at the box again.

Fuck.

He really should have volunteered for kitchen duty instead.

 

When Natasha and Sam arrive, it’s in a flurry of smiles and hugs and weighed-down tupperware dishes.

Sam did bring potatoes, to Bucky’s immense delight, and Nat, toting enough vodka to probably sink a small ship, is also holding a warm plate full of little golden-brown buns, which she immediately hands off to Bucky.

“Pirozhki,” she says, with one of those sweet but indecipherable smiles that make Bucky feel vaguely intimidated for no real reason at all. “You’ll like them.”

He’s not sure if that’s a command or an assurance. Either way, it seems best to answer, “Yes.”

They eat in the living room, spread out comfortably over furniture and chatting about nothing in particular; the Mets’ promising start to the season, Natasha’s new cat (whom she still maintains is not actually hers, even though she feeds her, brushes her, and lets her sleep in her bed), and Bucky’s current school year.

“I’m leaning towards pediatrics,” Bucky says, answering Sam’s question about his upcoming residency placement. “I went through the whole big scary hospital thing when I was a kid, so I feel like I know where they’re coming from, y’know?  Plus I’ve been told I’m pretty good with kids,” he grins, flexing metal fingers before reaching forward to snag his drink from the coffee table, “they like the arm.”

“They’re not the only ones, I’m sure,” Natasha puts in, immediately looking over at Steve with an angelic, too-innocent smile.

Steve’s face goes instantly, adorably red. “ _Nat_ ,” he complains, looking like he’s a second away from throwing his napkin at her.

“Is this about to turn into some kinky-ass sex thing?” Sam narrows his eyes suspiciously, looking back and forth between Steve and Bucky. “Because let me tell you, I’m gonna need _a lot_ more to drink if I have to survive that conversation.”

“Oh god.” Still beet-red, Steve rubs a hand over his face as he slouches down in his seat, clearly mortified.

“A gentleman never kisses and tells,” Bucky replies, straight-faced and solemn, making Sam and Nat crack up while Steve proceeds to groan and slide half way off the couch.

“I hate you all,” he mutters, still mostly hiding behind his hands, but Bucky can see the way his lips have quirked up at the corners.

“You don’t,” Bucky grins over at him fondly, kind of wishing they were alone right now because _god_ , the things he would do to this cute, flustered version of Steve. “You-”

He’s cut off when, like clockwork, three different phones go off simultaneously.

Bucky raises his eyebrows, watching as Steve, Sam and Natasha all go reaching for their phones at once. “Let me guess,” he says. “Avengers assemble?”

“Something like that.” Steve’s mouth flattens out into a straight line, eyes still trained downwards on his phone as he follows up a request of, “Turn on the news?”

Bucky grabs the remote from where it’s perched on the far arm of the couch and punches the button to power on the TV, quickly flipping over to one of the 24-hour news channels.

“Jesus,” he mutters, fingers reflexively tightening on the remote as his stomach turns over.

A building collapse downtown. Eight already confirmed dead, sixty injured, and countless others still trapped under twelve stories’ worth of rubble and concrete.

“Raincheck?” Natasha is the first to speak up, darting a glance over to Bucky.

“Yeah, shit, go guys.” Bucky waves her off with a hand and Nat and Sam immediately head for the door.

Steve lags behind them, first detouring to the bedroom to retrieve his shield, and on his way out he catches Bucky by the hip, guiding him in for a warm, brief kiss.

“Sorry,” he murmurs when they part, eyes so, so blue, roaming over Bucky’s face like he wants to do much more than just offer a quick kiss goodbye. “I’ll try to be back soon.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bucky replies, inclining his head so that each word has his mouth brushing Steve’s. Missions always leave his stomach a little jittery so he pulls Steve in by the back of the neck for one extra kiss, trying to let the familiar taste and heat and smell of Steve wash over him like a calming balm.

Steve rubs his free hand between Bucky’s shoulder blades before he draws away completely, jogging over towards the door.

“Be careful,” Bucky calls when Steve has one hand on the knob, poised to follow Sam and Nat outside.

Steve shoots him a grin. “Always am.”

Ha fucking ha.

Bucky snorts. For all his superhuman abilities, Steve is still a terrible judge of his own character.

“Liar,” he tosses back, but it comes out warm and affectionate; an ‘I love you’ in disguise.

“Jerk,” Steve counters softly, and all Bucky hears is _I know, me too._

Then, with a last small smile, the door swings open and he’s gone.

 

Bucky always thought he’d had patience.

He always thought he’d had patience, until he met Steve Rogers.

He always thought he’d had patience, until he met Steve Rogers and discovered the special kind of torture that comes with waiting for your significant other to return from a possibly life-endangering mission.

It’s been twenty minutes and he already feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin.

Forcing himself to park his ass on the couch, Bucky rests his elbows on his knees as he leans closer to the television, eyes scanning the news ticker that’s running in a loop across the bottom of the screen, almost obsessively looking for updates.

He should change the channel, he knows. Should get up and do something else. Should stay distracted, keep his mind busy. Should...help?

That half-formed thought has him automatically jumping to his feet, body ready to take action even though his brain hasn’t quite caught up yet.

He _can_ help though, he thinks. With that many injured and more to still be freed from the debris, there’s no doubt extra hands would be needed to keep up with the number of victims. Fractures would have to be set, bleeding would need to be staunched, and the urgent, serious cases would have to be sorted out from the minor bumps and scrapes that could wait for later attention.

He can do that. All of it. He can be useful, and it would sure as hell beat sitting around here doing dick-all, caught in a repetitive loop of worry and stress and concern over Steve.

Mind made up, Bucky flicks the TV off and heads for the doorway with purpose, pausing for only a second to gather up his phone and keys and pluck his hospital ID card off the jacket he’d last clipped it to. All the while, a faint little voice in the back of his head tells him that Steve would have a shit-fit if he knew what was going down, but Bucky easily ignores it, instead focusing on the task at hand: get downtown, help those people. That’s what’s important right now.

Besides, what Steve doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?

 

It’s as close to chaos as he’s ever seen.

Dust is still thick in the air and the wail of fire and ambulance sirens rise and fade in the background like a soundtrack to it all. A few people are stumbling around aimlessly, probably in shock, and Bucky directs a few of them over to sit on the adjacent sidewalk before he starts making his way over towards the first paramedic jacket he sees. 

It’s not easy to navigate his way from one side of the road to the other, though. Either some of the building debris bounced off into traffic or the drivers all simply panicked when everything started coming down. Whatever the cause, the street’s a messy tangle of multiple-vehicle collisions; smashed-in bumpers and hoods crumpled up like flimsy sheets of paper.

Bucky gets as far as two of the four lanes when he almost runs straight into a random firefighter’s back.  The guy’s by himself, standing next to the driver’s side of a green sedan where the woman inside’s sagging over the steering wheel, hollering into his radio for someone to bring over a pair of cutters, but from the way he’s going it alone, it’s obvious they’re stretched thin on both equipment and staff right now.

“I’m gonna need you to back up, buddy,” the man says when he notices Bucky watching.

“You need to get the door off?” Bucky asks, looking back at the half-conscious woman inside and wetting his lips, wondering if maybe...maybe... “I might be able to help you with that.”

The guy makes a disbelieving noise. “Look, unless you got a hydraulic...holy shit,” he trails off, eyes widening when Bucky pushes his left sleeve up to the elbow, silver gleaming almost jarringly against its dusty grey surroundings.

“I don’t know if it’ll work,” he admits, leveling the guy with a steady, frank look, “but I can try.”

Clearly still bewildered, the firefighter nods wordlessly and steps aside.

When he gets up close, Bucky can see that the glass has already been knocked out of the window, so it’s easy to curl his fingers around the top of the doorframe, metal plates automatically adjusting and realigning with a quiet series of clinks and whirrs, gearing up in preparation.

Once he feels like he’s got a good, solid grip, Bucky takes a breath, plants his feet, and _pulls_.

For about five seconds nothing happens, but then the sharp screech of metal on metal makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and the door lurches off its hinges as Bucky heaves it aside, panting only a little when all’s said and done.

It’s definitely the most strain he’s ever put on his arm, so he’s kind of shocked that it actually _worked_.

Dropping the door he rolls his shoulder back, watching as two nearby paramedics come swooping in to pull the driver out, then startling a little when he feels a hand land heavy on that same shoulder.

“Hey, thanks man.” The firefighter offers an appreciative nod, giving him another friendly pat before reaching up to adjust his slightly battered black helmet. His eyes keep returning to Bucky’s arm, darting down in curious little glances, and Bucky tries not to squirm under the scrutiny.  “You with them?” the guy asks, hooking his thumb over to where, closer to the worst of the damage, Bucky can see Clint – Hawkeye at the moment, he supposes - rigging up some kind of pulley system with a rope and arrow, preparing to lift a concrete slab off a trapped woman’s leg.

Bucky smiles. “Not exactly.”

“Oh.” The guy looks surprised at that, but grateful anyway. “Well, thanks again. Would’ve taken us three times as long to get that door off with our equipment.”

“Really?” Bucky asks thoughtfully, looking down as he curls his metal fingers into a fist, and that’s how he finds himself spending the next two hours acting not as a volunteer doctor, but an honorary pair of jaws of life, tearing open cars as easily as if they’re tuna can lids.

By the time he’s done he’s sweaty and tired and has accepted no less than twenty different pats on the back from various firefighters, one of them jokingly asking if he’s willing to tag along on their next call.  

Laughing, Bucky opens his mouth to respond but freezes when he sees a flash of familiar red hair in his peripherals.

Natasha.

Shit, Bucky thinks, some of the adrenaline high of a job well done instantly fading under the prospect of being found out. If she’s here, Steve can’t be all that far behind.

Saying a hasty goodbye to the fire crew, Bucky excuses himself and turns, catching her eye.

Nat immediately waves him over so he goes, weaving his way down the congested street and feeling a little like a school kid who just got caught doing something he shouldn’t.

When he gets closer, he’s relieved to see that she looks relatively unscathed, as cool and put-together as always, with a slight smudge of dirt on her nose and a pair of too-large work gloves swallowing up her hands. In theory it should look cute, but instead she looks like she could kill a man in six different ways with a single one of those gloves alone. Bucky is, not for the first time, grateful to be in her good books.

“Nice work back there, Barnes,” Natasha says when he approaches, offering one of those tiny, crooked grins that mean she’s being truly genuine.

Bucky blinks, floundering a bit under the unexpected praise. He knows she’s not one to dish out compliments lightly so it leaves him momentarily speechless, feeling oddly honored, like he just won some kind of award.

Her respect, he realizes, slightly stunned. That’s what he’s won, and fuck, what an honor it really does feel like.

“Thanks,” he eventually manages to reply, though it takes two tries for him to get the whole word to come out properly.

Natasha’s grin grows, transforming into something a little more teasing now. “You’re gonna be in trouble.”

“Yeah, I was kinda hoping to avoid that part.” Bucky rubs his flesh hand over his forehead, grimacing when he feels the layers of sweat and grime stuck there.  “Has he seen me yet?”

“Not yet,” Nat answers, nodding her chin to the left, “but he’s about to.”

Bucky follows her line of sight and his mouth instantly goes dry.

 Because there’s Steve, talking to an on-duty cop, and jesus fuck, does he ever look good. His Cap suit’s covered in a fine coating of dust and he’s missing his helmet, hair ruffled and golden in the late afternoon sun, a slash of dirt streaked high on the crest of one cheekbone.

When Steve eventually turns enough to notice him, a myriad of expressions play over his face in rapid succession: shock, confusion, and then his jaw is setting in a tight, stubborn line as he stalks towards Bucky with a tense, heated sort of determination.

Oh boy. This...is not going to be a pleasant conversation.

“Good luck,” Nat offers before abruptly spinning around and disappearing in the opposite direction.

“Hey,” Bucky complains, frowning at her retreating back. He’d been kind of hoping she would stick around so he’d have some extra back-up for this, but apparently the extent of their newly formed friendship doesn’t yet include the perk of ‘will fight other people’s fights on their behalf’. It’s a damn shame.

“Bucky?”

Once he’s close enough Steve reaches out, first touching Bucky’s shoulder then the side of his face, like he needs the physical confirmation that Bucky’s really there.

“Hi Stevie.” Bucky tries for a smile but he can feel it falling flat, wilting under the severity of Steve’s glare.

Unimpressed, Steve crosses his arms over his chest, all Captain America authority, and it’s probably supposed to be intimidating, but all Bucky can think of his how goddamn hot he looks.

Those biceps.

Fuck.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Steve demands, prompting Bucky to blink and pry his stubborn gaze away from Steve’s arms, traveling up to settle on his face instead.

“Uh, tearing apart cars with my bare hands?” Wow, there’s a line he never thought he’d get to say.

Steve opens his mouth to respond, obviously gearing up for some kind of outburst judging from the way the muscle in his jaw keeps jumping, but then he eyes the scattered crowds of people around them and seems to think better of it.

“We’ll talk about this at home,” Steve settles on saying, voice low and serious.

Something about that choice of words, coupled with the disapproving parental tone Steve uses, instantly rubs Bucky the wrong way. It feels like he’s being talked down to, and, as far as he’s concerned, that shit is not about to fly.

The last of his good mood evaporating, Bucky gives Steve’s hard, scowling expression a run for its money, offering up one of his own in return.

“Fuckin’ right we will,” he mutters.

 

They take the subway back after Steve insists that he doesn’t need to stop off at the Tower with the others. It’s a silent ride, the two of them sitting shoulder to shoulder, Bucky keeping his gaze fixed out the window and Steve staring straight ahead. He’s still decked out in the Cap suit too, so more than a few curious heads turn their way, but Steve’s giving off such a strong pissed off vibe that no one dares to approach them.

By the time they make it back to the apartment, they still haven’t spoken a single word to each other.

“I’m taking a shower.” Bucky finally breaks the long, tense stretch of silence, brushing past Steve on his way to the bathroom.

Steve catches him by the elbow before he can get more than two steps down the hallway. “Wait. First we’re gonna talk,” he says, eyes darker and more serious than Bucky’s ever seen them. “You want to tell me what that was?”

Pulling his elbow out of Steve’s grasp, Bucky exhales through his nose, trying to rein in the mounting sense of irritation he can feel creeping higher and higher.

“I wanted to help,” he answers in a slow, visibly patient voice, “so I did. It’s not a big deal.”

Steve’s eyes practically double in size. “Not a big - yes it is!” He insists. “You shouldn’t’ve been there in the first place!”

“Steve,” Bucky frowns, keeping that carefully patient tone, though it’s taking considerably more effort to maintain this time around, “you’re blowing this way out of proportion. It’s not like I tried to run straight into the place while it was coming down, and even with the shit I did do, I had guys spotting me the entire time. It was fine. _I’m_ fine.”

“You shouldn’t have been there,” Steve repeats, stubborn and mulish as ever. “The risk...”

At that, Bucky can’t help but laugh. It’s an unpleasant, harsh kind of sound, holding no actual humor. “That’s fucking rich, coming from you.”

There are sparks of anger in Steve’s gaze now, a vivid electric blue as he locks eyes with Bucky, neither willing to be the first to back down. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Bucky snorts unattractively. “I think you know.”

“No, I don’t.” Steve retorts as he crosses his arms over his chest, looking highly unamused. “Enlighten me.”

“You’re being an idiot,” Bucky says bluntly, not bothering to sugar-coat it anymore as his voice starts to gain a bit of an edge. “So you’re telling me that you’re allowed to throw yourself face-fucking-first into danger every damn day, but I can’t do this one thing? You sound like such a fucking hypocrite right now.”

“That’s different,” Steve insists, voice instinctively rising with the heat of the argument, and god, he’s so fucking stubborn, Bucky could clock him.

“Different?” he echoes, eyebrows arching up with obvious skepticism. “How? _How_ , Steve?”

Making a frustrated sound, Steve grabs him by the shoulders, fingertips digging in like he thinks he might be able to literally shake some sense into Bucky. “Because you could’ve been hurt, Buck!”

“Oh, and you’re so fucking indestructible every time you go out on a mission?” Bucky tosses back.

Steve’s grip on his shoulders tightens, and Bucky finds his own hands wanting to curl up into fists by extension. He doesn’t think they’ll come to literal blows over this – no matter how worked up Steve may be, he’d never so much as _think_ of lashing out physically, of that Bucky’s certain - but fuck, is he ever itching to hit something right now.

“ _I_ have the serum!” Steve counters, face flushed and eyes alight with heated anger.

“And is that gonna help you if someone shoots you point-blank in the chest? If that building had fallen on _you_ today? You’re not invincible, Steve!” Bucky’s nearly shouting now, right into Steve’s face, but he can’t bring himself to care. Now that the metaphorical floodgates are open, there’s no going back. “You think I like seeing you throw yourself around like that, calling it heroicism when all you are‘s just a big fucking idiot with zero sense of self-preservation? Do you have any idea how fucking hard that is to watch? Any idea what it’s like to constantly wonder whether you’re gonna come back hurt? If maybe some day you’re not gonna come back at all? Do you have _any_ _fucking idea_ what that’s like?!”

There are tears burning in his eyes, born out of frustration and the rapid influx of too much emotion, and when Bucky finally stops to take a breath, his lungs feel too tight, aching with each attempt to pull in air.

At the very least though, that has apparently stunned Steve into silence.

He doesn’t say anything – barely even blinks - so for a long time they simply stare at each other, eyes dark and chests heaving, until something snaps and all of a sudden they’re both moving at once, crashing together, kissing hard and urgent.

Steve fists a hand in Bucky’s hair and pulls, making him cry out, so he retaliates by biting the thick muscle at the top of Steve’s shoulder, hard enough to earn a soft grunt, leaving a mark that’ll probably take an hour or two to fully disappear, even with his accelerated healing.

Bucky’s blood is pumping on overdrive, skin hot and breaths coming out in short, quick gasps as Steve walks him backwards, shoving him up against the wall, and then impatient hands are tugging at Bucky’s pants as Steve’s mouth finds his again.

He moans into the kiss, head hitting the wall when Steve pushes one hand down the front of his pants to palm him through his underwear.

He’s already hard, riled up from their argument, though from the fierce look on Steve’s face, the rougher, less considerate touch of his hands, Bucky’s pretty sure they’re still deep in the thick of the fight, just trading out words for actions instead.

“Fuck,” he hisses when Steve immediately starts stroking him fast and tight, keeping Bucky pinned to the wall with the lower half of his body as he uses his free hand to start shoving Bucky’s pants down his thighs.

Brain already going hazy and sex-sluggish, Bucky belatedly reaches down to help, tugging the bunched-up fabric down to his ankles and then kicking off his boots so he can finish the job. When he straightens back up, naked from the waist down, Steve immediately reaches for the hem of his shirt, quickly pulling it over Bucky’s head before diving back in for another, deeper, kiss, pushing his tongue into Bucky’s mouth.

It feels strange to be completely bare while Steve’s still fully clothed - in his Cap suit no less - and Bucky shivers when red, white and blue fabric rubs up against him, rough and unforgiving. Strange, he thinks, but not bad. It leaves him feeling almost lewd, shameless and exhilarated, and all that sensation travels straight to his cock until he finds himself grinding against Steve’s thigh and whimpering into his mouth.  

Steve’s breathing hard when he finally pulls back, fingers fumbling with one of the small pouches on his belt while Bucky makes it his mission to avidly distract him, trying to follow Steve’s mouth, wanting more, and he manages to score himself three more kisses before Steve breaks away for good, placing a palm flat on Bucky’s abs and forcing him firmly into place against the wall.

Frustrated and dying to be touched, Bucky opens his mouth to complain, but then he sees the tiny silver packet in Steve’s opposite hand and his mouth just kind of stays there for a minute, hanging open for completely different reasons now.

“Holy shit,” he manages once his brain’s able to make sense of exactly what’s happening here, “you carry that stuff in your _suit_?”

“Bucky,” Steve says shortly. A warning.

“I mean, I know you get pegged as a boy scout a lot of the time,” Bucky continues, “but this is taking ‘always be prepared’ to massively new heights, Stevie.”

“Shut.  Up.” One hand still holding Bucky firmly in place by the hip, Steve tears into the packet with his teeth, which, _woah_. Bucky’s cock really, really likes that.

Swallowing hard, he struggles to maintain that breezy, conversational tone as he eggs Steve on even further. “So have you always kept lube in your suit or was that a special addition after you met m- _ohh_ , fuck _._ ”

Head falling back against the wall, Bucky breaks off into a long, drawn-out groan when Steve immediately presses one slicked finger into him, not stopping until he’s deep at the second knuckle.

“You gonna stop being a smart ass now?” Steve challenges, giving him barely any time at all to adjust before Bucky feels a second finger working in alongside the first, opening him up with a quick, skilled efficiency that makes his head swim and body burn hot.

“Jesus.” Legs useless, all Bucky can do is sag forward and try to remind himself to breathe as Steve supports the majority of his weight against his chest and shoulder.

Once he’s taking two fingers easily, Steve wastes no time moving up to three and Bucky can’t fucking take it, grabbing at Steve’s uniform – he’s still fucking dressed, why is he still fucking dressed? – and babbling frantic, needy encouragements of, “now, now, now.”

And Steve, whether he’s fulfilling Bucky’s request or just too impatient to stop and pull everything off properly, yanks his suit down only as far as the waist before his hands are back on Bucky, shoving a knee between his legs and crowding him against the wall.

Bucky immediately hooks one thigh up around his hip, letting Steve at his front and the wall at his back keep him balanced, groaning when he feels Steve’s cock slide hot and hard along his ass, and when Steve finds the right angle, smoothly pressing in, they catch eyes and stare, panting and both a little wild-eyed.

“Fuck,” Steve says, quiet and with feeling, once his whole length is resting deep and snug in Bucky’s ass.

Bucky makes a noise that can’t even be classified as a word, a throaty kind of groan that probably says more than any amount of the English language actually could at a moment like this, shivering and too hot all at once as he feels himself stretch wide around the thickness of Steve’s cock.

Steve fucks him like that, hard and steady, holding him with one hand under Bucky’s thigh and the other gripping the top his shoulder where it meets the side of his neck. It’s sharp and rough and the zipper on Steve’s suit keeps digging into his inner thigh, but it’s good, it’s so, so good, exactly what he needs, and even if he could form words right now, Bucky wouldn’t ask for anything else.

Instead he just presses his face into Steve’s throat and stifles his moans against that hot, smooth skin. He stays like that until Steve noses at his hairline, encouraging him to lift his head back up, and when he does, the look on Steve’s face makes his heart clench tight with feeling.

“You’re everything to me, Buck. Everything,” Steve’s voice breaks, expression open and exposed in a way that begs Bucky to understand the reason behind all his frustration and anger. “I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

“You won’t,” Bucky promises breathlessly, “you won’t, Stevie, I promise, I-”

Steve swallows the rest of his words in a kiss and from there the atmosphere shifts, turning from rough and aggressive to something raw, more desperate.

“Buck...Bucky....” Steve can’t stop saying his name and Bucky never wants to stop hearing it, loving the low timbre of Steve’s voice, the way it bleeds hunger and reverence, like he can’t get enough, can’t believe this is real.

“I love you,” Bucky moans, so close now it feels like he’s about to implode, swell and burst like a dying star. “I love you so fucking much.”

Steve’s eyes are faintly wet when they find Bucky’s face again, looking at him like no one’s ever looked at him before, and then he’s leaning in, pressing their foreheads together, breathing ragged against each other’s mouths as they fall apart.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmurs afterwards, when they’re tucked up against together after navigating over to their bedroom. “I said some shit...”

Steve huffs out a noise that might be a laugh, breath tickling Bucky’s ear. “You called me a fucking idiot.”

He winces. “Um, yeah.”

Steve smiles, small and sad. “You weren’t wrong. I’m sorry too. I’m gonna try...” he pauses, swallows roughly before continuing, making a point to word it as a promise when he continues, “I won’t be as reckless out there. You were right. You don’t deserve that, and I never wanted to put you through that kind of stress.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says softly before attempting to lighten the mood a little, adding, “You didn’t even get to see me in action, did you? I was badass.”

It has the intended effect and Steve laughs, arms tightening around him. “No I didn’t, but I’m sure it’s on Youtube by now. Those kinds of missions always are.”

“No shit, really?” Bucky sits up a bit, reaching across for Steve’s phone where it’d been left laying on the side table. Once he’s got it in hand, he settles back against Steve’s side where it’s all nice and warm and cozy, then begins scrolling through Steve’s apps, pulling up the one he wants.

Steve was right: it’s shockingly easy to find. Bucky gets as far as typing ‘avengers new york building collapse’ into the search bar and at least ten different shaky amateur phone videos instantly pop up.

He selects the first one on the list and Steve tilts his head to rest his temple against Bucky’s so they can both watch the screen together.

“Wow,” Steve says after a minute or two, in a weird kind of voice that Bucky’s never quite heard him use before. “Bucky, that’s – just – _wow_.”

“Not a bad trick, huh?” Bucky grins, craning his neck a bit to look over at Steve, and the look on his face...jesus.

Bucky might not have been able to place that voice, but Steve’s expression is pretty damn easy to read; flushed and big-eyed and blatantly, enormously turned on.

“And your arm feels okay? It didn’t hurt or anything?” Steve swallows a few times, rough enough that Bucky can see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

“Not at all,” he confirms, grin widening out into a full-fledged smirk. “Why? You see something you like, Stevie?”

Steve immediately plucks the phone out of his grip and tosses it back onto the side table, not caring that his throw’s a little too hard, making it clatter as it hits the base of the reading lamp. “You know what I want,” he replies, low and husky in a way that lights Bucky’s insides up like a bright-burning string of Christmas lights.

“Yeah, but _I_ want you to tell me,” he urges, rolling over and up onto his knees until he’s straddling Steve’s lap.

Steve makes a rough noise in the back of his throat, hands automatically going to Bucky’s hips to pull him closer as Bucky bends forward to kiss him, and from there it doesn’t take long at all before Steve gives in, voicing exactly what he wants.

“Hold me down and fuck me into the mattress,” he says, looking up at Bucky with those blue, earnest eyes, “please.”

 And, well, who is Bucky to deny a polite request like that?

Sliding his metal hand down Steve’s stomach towards the space between his legs, Bucky smiles. “My pleasure, sweetheart.”

 

 

 


End file.
